"You think I don't know that?" Because if there's one thing she knows it's the fucking reality of the situation, okay? But he's asking her to pretend that's not what is is - to pretend that it's okay when it's not. And that isn't fair. He sure as shit doesn't bother deluding himself ninety percent of the time, so why the hell should she?
"Jesus Joel, it's just some stupid class. It's not a big deal."
"Not now," his attention snaps back over towards her. Still and straight and sounding deceptively objective about the whole thing. "But when I can't be around to have your back anymore what then, huh?"
He needs this. He needs to know she'll be okay. It's not enough to trust she can survive out in the wild anymore.
"I have done damn near everything there is to do in this world, but you are not me - you are fifteen years old and I do not want to see you throw it away. Not like this."
God, she can't-- she presses the heels of her hands to her eyes and paces a short half circle. She can't fucking argue with this. Not when he's so dead set on cutting everything she tries to tell him down at the knees.
"Well you know what." Ellie rounds on him, dropping her hands. "I guess it's a good thing I don't need your permission then, huh?"
Exasperated, Joel angles his head in again, raises his hands where she moves to drop her own. "Why can't you just--" one short cut-off, one attempt to even out so they're not just butting heads. "It's a compromise, Ellie, I ain't asking the world here. Meet me halfway."
"No, you meet me halfway! We both agree that history is stupid and walking the perimeter is practically the same shit as p.e. It's not like I'm never gonna be around kids my age if I skip out on two stupid classes. I don't see what the big deal is."
Which isn't what this is about and she's pretty friggin' sure they both know that, but that doesn't mean she can't pretend otherwise. Because she may not be able to win anything else, but she can at least get this.
"It is not the same!" There's a difference between playing and fighting and he hasn't seen her so much as inch towards the latter since Utah. He hasn't got a clue why she's up in arms, but for him, after months spent walking to the sound of bad jokes and incessant bouts of eager, unintentionally invasive questions, it's all that matters.
"Nothing is, so stop pretending like it!" Ellie snaps back, voice cracking desperately. And her face is open, chest hitching with a drawn in breath that feels hollow when she finally releases it. Just give this to her. Please. Just this one thing.
It's quiet after the low, rasping sound of Ellie breathing out. His side's all knotted and his skin feels dry, dirty with salt. Stings enough for him to focus on that instead of the tangled mess of boxed up memories threatening to spill over because--
She's not ready to be right. Being right on this loads some kind of meaning into the rest of it, doesn't it? So it makes her rock back on her heels, her head swinging up. Ellie stills for a moment, deer in the headlights. But then the horse shifts behind her and bumps against her with his shoulder. The sharp line of her shoulders eases and her eyes drops to her feet.
"Okay." She nods, rocking gently on her feet. "Okay good."
He's already turned back towards the barn door, attention fixed on the floodlights outside instead of the conversation behind him. Glances down-- stupidly-- to check his time on a stopwatch he doesn't even have. Pulls back from the broken frame of the one he's had on for twenty years.
There's something about the shape of his back turned to her, dark against the light of the yard, that makes her suddenly anxious. She steadies herself off Bubble's shoulder and calls after him: "Joel?"
The horse is warm at her back, alive and shifting. She can feel the prickle of its coat, the coarse hair of Bubbles's mane tickling the back of her neck just over the collar of her sweatshirt, the front of which is plastered with a school logo she doesn't recognize and won't ever know. Ellie threads her fingers together in front of her and picks at her knuckles. It's mostly quiet but even now she can make out the hum of water churning nearby if she listens.
"Thanks," she says. In this instance, she's pretty sure she means it.
By appearances alone, it doesn't win her much. When he half-turns to stare back at her from over his shoulder his expression is still listless and worn thin. But then he jerks his head to the side, mutters in a quiet tone that matches her own: "C'mon."
It's a long walk back; no point in doing it alone.
She nods. With a shirt farewell pat to the horse's shoulder, Ellie pushes off and falls in half a step behind him. She tucks her hands in the front pocket of her sweatshirt and keeps her head bowed as she goes, but follows him. Because where else would she go anyway?
It goes on for that like a while. Whether he wants to say anything or not, finding the right words are too hard when he's already spent about as much effort as he's got in him to give. A pack of bandits got shot down a few days ago, dropped a nice load of supplies-- even a few packets of pain medication. He'd turned down the offer of taking them (for a man his age he's as fit as a horse, figures someone else might need the things more) but Maria's a sharp one; she dropped them off anyway.
And the image of those packets settled down at the edge of the kitchen counter is stuck firmly in the forefront of his mind for the majority of their walk home.
"--He tries to hold your hand?" Joel asks abruptly, when they're crossing into the heart of the neighborhood closest to his house. Maybe pills aren't the only thing on his mind.
The streets are mostly empty, though occasionally she can make out the distant shape of figures on the edge of floodlights as they make their way from their homes to the wall or back - coming in or off rotation. There's something strangely insulated about the streets and the dark shapes of the trees hazy out there beyond the perimeter. It's never fully dark and she's not sure how she feels about it.
The question's not what she expects to break the silence between them and Ellie scoffs involuntarily. Beyond that it takes her a moment to scrape her words together: "Yeah. His palm's all sweaty. I don't know. He's not my type."
"Good." Is all she gets in response for a few more beats while Joel stuffs his hands down into what constitutes for pockets-- too thin, too small-- stitched in the sides of his running shorts. Good. Last thing either of them need is a boy coming into the picture. Especially a stupid one.
He was a stupid one.
"...you have a type." Less statement, more question.
"Well, yeah. I mean who doesn't, right?" Which is all she really plans to say on the matter until the silence that follows seems to mean he might want the point elaborated or something. Which wow, awkward. Ellie shoves her hands deeper in the pocket of her sweatshirt and stares at the pavement just in front of her feet.
She shrugs. "I don't know, that Williamson kid isn't bad. He kind of looks like a kicked puppy." And is like five years older than her, but she's pretty much banking on the fact that Joel probably doesn't know one not-quite-teenage-anymore boy from the next. "And can't hit jackshit with a gun from like ten yards away either. It's kind of sad."
"Seriously?" Joel angles his head towards her, brows down flat and low over his eyes. He doesn't like the idea of it, but he wouldn't like the idea regardless of the sort of boys she was into: they're still boys.
"Well you know, him and that old dude with like two fingers chopped off his right hand. Hot." She mimes the missing two fingers and waggles her eyebrows at the remaining three. Deal with it, Joel.
He grunts. Rolls his eyes and shuffles off across the lawn towards their house. "Take the old geezer - he's at least good for somethin'." No lock, no real need for it. Joel fiddles with the handle, butts his shoulder against the door to pop it open for her.
"How about this: if I take either of them, I swear you'll be the first to know." It's all easy sarcasm with the definite air that she's not gunning for either in a particular hurry. Ellie shoulders past him, sliding through the gap of the door into the stale air of the hallway and--
Electricity. Man there is nothing like it, and no amount of time spent here will ever change how he feels about that. Door shut and seen to in the warm flicker of restored electric lamplight, Joel makes a b-line for the pill packets scattered at the edge of the counter, downs them with a bottle of chilled water from the fridge. Sometimes it all seems absurd, enjoying comforts he hasn't known in years but--
Dwelling on it too long isn't gonna help anyone. Tommy did a good job. Fine, he can admit that.
"Go on, scoot. You should've been in bed hours ago." Damn teenagers.
She lingers for a moment in the lit hall. The electricity is something, yeah, but the house is still the product of twenty years worth of deglect with only the barest kind of care from the two of them. The peeling wallpaper's mostly been pulled down, so that's something. All the photos have been taken down, floors and windows cleaned, most of the claustrophobic smell aired out but--
There's something weird about Joel standing over the kitchen counter. And she could let it go, not poke - just get her butt upstairs and into bed. Because he's right. She probably should've been there hours ago. But. "Hey, your side's okay right?" Because she doesn't know how to ask if anything else is okay. "Your guts aren't going to go bleh" --she illustrates the noise by motioning with both hands from her belly toward the floor-- "Are they?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
"Jesus Joel, it's just some stupid class. It's not a big deal."
no subject
He needs this. He needs to know she'll be okay. It's not enough to trust she can survive out in the wild anymore.
"I have done damn near everything there is to do in this world, but you are not me - you are fifteen years old and I do not want to see you throw it away. Not like this."
no subject
"Well you know what." Ellie rounds on him, dropping her hands. "I guess it's a good thing I don't need your permission then, huh?"
no subject
Exasperated, Joel angles his head in again, raises his hands where she moves to drop her own. "Why can't you just--" one short cut-off, one attempt to even out so they're not just butting heads. "It's a compromise, Ellie, I ain't asking the world here. Meet me halfway."
no subject
Which isn't what this is about and she's pretty friggin' sure they both know that, but that doesn't mean she can't pretend otherwise. Because she may not be able to win anything else, but she can at least get this.
no subject
Things weren't supposed to turn out like this.
no subject
no subject
"Fine."
Because she's right. And he's tired.
no subject
"Okay." She nods, rocking gently on her feet. "Okay good."
no subject
"I'm headin' home."
no subject
no subject
no subject
"Thanks," she says. In this instance, she's pretty sure she means it.
no subject
It's a long walk back; no point in doing it alone.
no subject
no subject
And the image of those packets settled down at the edge of the kitchen counter is stuck firmly in the forefront of his mind for the majority of their walk home.
"--He tries to hold your hand?" Joel asks abruptly, when they're crossing into the heart of the neighborhood closest to his house. Maybe pills aren't the only thing on his mind.
no subject
The question's not what she expects to break the silence between them and Ellie scoffs involuntarily. Beyond that it takes her a moment to scrape her words together: "Yeah. His palm's all sweaty. I don't know. He's not my type."
no subject
He was a stupid one.
"...you have a type." Less statement, more question.
no subject
She shrugs. "I don't know, that Williamson kid isn't bad. He kind of looks like a kicked puppy." And is like five years older than her, but she's pretty much banking on the fact that Joel probably doesn't know one not-quite-teenage-anymore boy from the next. "And can't hit jackshit with a gun from like ten yards away either. It's kind of sad."
Really adorably sad.
no subject
Kicked puppy is her type.
"Seriously?" Joel angles his head towards her, brows down flat and low over his eyes. He doesn't like the idea of it, but he wouldn't like the idea regardless of the sort of boys she was into: they're still boys.
no subject
no subject
no subject
--flicks the light switch.
no subject
Electricity. Man there is nothing like it, and no amount of time spent here will ever change how he feels about that. Door shut and seen to in the warm flicker of restored electric lamplight, Joel makes a b-line for the pill packets scattered at the edge of the counter, downs them with a bottle of chilled water from the fridge. Sometimes it all seems absurd, enjoying comforts he hasn't known in years but--
Dwelling on it too long isn't gonna help anyone. Tommy did a good job. Fine, he can admit that.
"Go on, scoot. You should've been in bed hours ago." Damn teenagers.
no subject
There's something weird about Joel standing over the kitchen counter. And she could let it go, not poke - just get her butt upstairs and into bed. Because he's right. She probably should've been there hours ago. But. "Hey, your side's okay right?" Because she doesn't know how to ask if anything else is okay. "Your guts aren't going to go bleh" --she illustrates the noise by motioning with both hands from her belly toward the floor-- "Are they?"
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)